Misunderstood
by Jay's World
Summary: Fics for Nashville -When Bella moves to her father, she is handed more than one wounded person to love. In a world of someone's and wannabe's, she catches the eye of the only outcast. Will the noone ever really understand his broken soul? Citrus


**Pen name: Jay's World  
Rating: M  
Pairing: Jasper/Bella  
Title: Misunderstood  
Fandom: Twilight****

* * *

A/N:  
**_I'm Random Girl_ informed me of the situation in Nashville and "Fics of Nashville" because truly Norwegian news don't cover much international news. I'm sorry about that, but I'm happy to help in any way I can. And that seems to be in writing.

**Beta:**_xrxdanixrx_ – Thank you for all the editing and comments. You made this great!

* * *

**Disclaimer:** All rights go to Stephenie Meyer, the creator of The Twilight Saga and the characters I'm writing about. No copyright infringement intended.

Additional **A/N**: With the help of the hundreds who contributed with stories, and the many of contributed with money, 'Fics for Nashville' raised over $7,000 for the floor-relief in Nashville. We _can _make a difference, even if we are all just pennyless writers scattered around the globe. I hope you all remember that. And NB: There may be offensive matter in this story, don't like don't read. That was all, now on to some Jella-love.

***Warning***

Find your Kleenex box for the tears ahead (I kid you not, people's been telling me of the waterworks!)  
and a tub of your favorite _Ben and Jerry's_ for the aftermath. Both are heavily needed.  
Concider yourselv tissue-warned.

* * *

**Present day.**

When the call ends, I don't cry or weep. Instead, I call the airline, making preparations for my flight home. To my real home. Though I love the way the Texan sun feels on my skin, reminding me of Florida and my mom, I have never truly loved this place. It doesn't feel right, like there is something missing.

And I know what it is.

It's a hole in my heart.

When that call ends, I still don't cry, I still don't weep, but I go to my room and pack my bags.

The flight leaves tomorrow.

I call my dad, letting him know I'll be home in no time. He doesn't comment on the lack of emotion in my voice, the robotically statements on when I'll be landing in Port Angeles. He offers to pick me up. I decline, telling him I'll rent a car instead, giving me a little more freedom to move around when I get there. Though, honestly in a town that small I wouldn't be restricted by the lack of engine access.

At night, I go to sleep, hugging my body tight. But, I still don't cry, I still don't weep but succumb to a dark and hollow unconsciousness.

The next day, I get another call.

It's his mother again, giving me the details, and I thank her politely. I've always liked her.

"He would be happy to know you're coming," she tells me, ripping up my heart with every word. I'm not so sure he would, but I still say thank you and hang up, grabbing my bags and locking my door.

Mrs. Brandon is walking out the door of her apartment across from mine, holding a toddler in her arms, and I help her lock her door. I smile when she lifts her granddaughter, Emily, in her arms and gives me a tired smile.

I guide her down the stairs, holding her elbow, and open up the doors for her.

She doesn't comment either on the lack of emotion I'm portraying. It's like she knows. Crazy old bat, always knowing everything. "You be good now," she tells me and gives me a one-armed hug.

"I will, Alice," I tell her, and get into the cab I called for.

The cab fare, the flight to SeaTac, and the continuation to Port Angeles goes by in a haze, like I'm not even there to experience it. My body is present, but my mind is somewhere else, lost in a past I ache so dearly to return to.

When I arrive in Port Angeles, I get my car, driving home cautiously.

Home.

Everything is green and brown, and I finally feel at home.

Home.

The thick trees huddled together on the side of the road, the wet and crisp weather, and the dark clouds. No amount of sun can compare to this.

This is home.

I park behind my father's beat up Chevy, frowning at the lost memories created in it, the emotions. My heart rips up all over again, but I still don't cry.

My father greets me the same way he did four years ago, with a small smile and a speechless hug. The smell of Old Spice and day old tobacco on his clothes makes me smile, because he smells like home.

Still holding my arms, he pushes me slightly away and gives me a once-over, but I'm not sure if he is smiling or frowning. With his lips set in a thin line, it makes his forehead wrinkle with age.

"You've changed so much, Isabella," he says, and leads me inside with the slight limp in his step.

And he's right. I have changed.

* * *

**Four years ago. **

It's my first day at Forks High, and I am a noone.

Here, in a small high school like this, there are always noone's, everyone's and someone's. Everyone, who wants to be someone, has to leave behind their noone, becoming, yet, another stereotype someone. Though, they don't get that it's the noone's that will someday be the _real_ _someone's._

Though, at first glance, they all see me as a someone, a new one, fresh meat to their slaughter room. But I don't care; instead, I get out of my father's red Chevy and walk to the main office. The lady behind the desk gives me an apologetic smile and hands me my new schedule and a map of the campus. I thank her and look over the papers.

There are classes I aced back in Florida, and I frown a little at their lack of AP electives. But it's only for a few months, I tell myself. A few months and I'll be gone from this place, and no one will remember me at all.

I decide to stay a noone, but since it's my first day and I'm looked upon as a movie star, I let them stare all they want on my way to homeroom.

I sit down next to a bleach blonde girl with pigtails. With our obligated school uniform consisting of a white shirt, blue skirt and tie; her skirt hiked up so it can barely cover her ass, the shirt unbuttoned and the tie loose – she looks an awful lot like a bad remake of Britney Spears. She even blows on a pink gum.

She's a wannabe, an everyone who's not a noone, but not yet a someone.

At first glance, I say she gives it up on the first date, or just in the back of someone's car in-between classes. At first glance, I can already tell I don't like her.

"Hi," she says with a sugar sweet high pitched voice, holding out her hand for a handshake. "I'm Jessica. Like, Jessica Stanley. OH-EM-GEE! That sounded just like that _Band_ guy who played with Halle Berry in that movie." She seems utterly pleased with herself for saying that, but I am not.

"Don't you mean _Bond_?" I ask with a smirk, and she gets this look like she's insulted. "Bond. James Bond?" My voice is low and husky. I take her hand, grinning widely, her expression blank. She's a wannabe all right. Complete airhead.

"Ehm. Yeah, sure. _Freak_" she mutters under her breath, but I hear her. Frankly, I can't care less what she thinks of me. "So what's your name?" She doesn't smile like she did before.

"Bella Swan," I tell her. Her face lights like a Christmas tree, indicating she knows about my dad.

"OH-EM-GEE, your dad is like, a hero or something," she exclaims, and jumps up and down a little in her seat. I didn't know anyone could get this excited to hear I am the daughter of a man that just got shot. "He like, _saved _Mike's mom that day. I swear, he's like, _the _hero of all time."

"Who's Mike?" I ask, and Jessica's face turns red. But it's not with embarrassment or shyness it looks like possessiveness.

"Mike," she snaps, "is on the basketball team. He is like, the dreamiest guy ever." She straightens her back so her plastic boobs jut out. "And, he's going to be my prom date."

She seems pretty sure of herself, so I don't rain on her parade. From the way she talks about him, until our teacher arrives, it's clear that he's a someone. But she's still a wannabe. The chances for them to be together look small to me. But then again, maybe the lines between wannabe and someone are blurrier here than in Florida.

My first couple of classes goes by like _that_, sharing almost all of them with the delightful Jessica, and I recognize almost every face in all of my classes. There's Tyler, Lauren, Steven, Eric, Emmett, Rosalie, and Jacob.

They, of course, as Jessica gossips on and on and on, are someone's. Well, Emmett and Rosalie certainly are. I can see it the minute they step into class, straight backs and superiority just radiating off of them. Perfect looks, perfect hair, perfect bodies. They are the epitome of a high school cliché; the jock and the cheerleader, the standard someone's.

They don't talk to me or even look my way, so I gather that, to them, I am a noone. Jessica continues to gossip all the way to lunch, linking her arm with mine, and I grimace. Her mouth is like a never ending gap, a black hole that just continues and will never stop.

She takes a tray and stands in line in front of me, but grabs nothing but two sticks of celery and a bottle of water. When she looks over her shoulder to me – my own tray filled with a bottle of ice tea, chips and a sandwich – she frowns in disgust and sneers a little.

So much hostility.

Gah.

_Eat something with some real substance and maybe you won't be so cranky all the time. _

But of course, I don't tell her that, instead, I grin wickedly and add a piece of cake to my tray, pay, and follow after her through the hoards of students in white and blue, filing in to get their daily dose of high school crap. I mean, food.

Once at the table she leads us to, she introduces me to her friends. I can't even remember their names once she's said them, but I still smile and say hi to each and every one. Jessica sits down next to me, starting to talk and talk and talk, until my ears practically bleed. She is yapping about the someone's and drags down the noone's.

The air shifts and tension slips in.

Jessica stops talking.

The doors leading into the cafeteria slam together.

Every head turns.

He walks in, high and mighty. No tie, but the first few buttons on his shirt are popped open, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Then there's his hair; dark brown locks slightly curled and reaching the tips of his ears, almost flowing in the air with every step he takes. He's tall and lean, but the way the white in his shirt transcends in the florescent lighting and hugs his body, you can see the muscles on his arms and torso.

He looks untouchable.

Hot like hell.

But not a someone.

The way he walks, the way every head turns to him, some with awe and others frowning, it says it all. He is not accepted by the someone's, and yet, he's not a noone or a plain everyone.

He's an outcast.

Untouchable.

"Who's he?" I ask Jessica, and every head at the table turns to me.

"_That,_" she starts, "is Jasper Whitlock. He's like...a total loser." The others laugh and say "hell yeah" to her statement, and Jessica almost glows with pride.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he like, grew up here and all, but no one really knew about him until freshman year, and he like, didn't talk to anyone or look at anyone and was like, really skinny. He looked, like, anorexic or something. It was totally creepy, because he had this look, _right?_ Like he was going to snap everyone's head off. Like, r_eally _mad, but no one said one word to him. He's like, such a loser. He has no friends at all.

"And then, like, last year, he just disappeared for two weeks, right? No one knew why, but then he comes back and he's like, all ripped and hot and he dyed his hair brown, though it used to be blond. And he got into fights _all the time. _He's crazy. He even picked a fight with Emmett and they had to be pulled apart by the entire football team. And then, he's like, always moody and stuff. Total _loser_."

"Hmm," is my only reply. I never take my eyes off of him as he sits down across the room with his own tray and picks on some fries. He sits alone; no one even spares a glance his way, like he doesn't exist.

And yet, I can't take my eyes off of him.

"Uhm, Bella?"

Jessica's annoying voice breaks my intense staring, and I turn and answer to whatever question she asks me. She returns to the conversation, but when I turn around, he's gone.

**I\/I**

Every day when I get home, Dad sits in his recliner and…mopes…There's really no other word for it. He has this small pout and when he looks at me you'd think the world has ended. But then again, for him, it has. In one way.

My mom had dragged me out of school in the middle of the day, breaking down once we got home, telling me how my father was in the hospital. Shot. Nearly dying. She had told me how she wanted to go and help him recover, but I stopped her. She had her business doing floral decorations for homes and social gatherings, and it was blooming; orders coming in from left and right. I begged her not to go, telling her I'd go instead and look after him. She relented after hours of arguing and debating the subject, finally realizing it was for the better.

But when I got here, there really wasn't much to do. All he really needed was someone to cook and do laundry and clean around the house. He could walk with his crutches, going to physical therapy three times a week to work himself back to perfection. Even after being shot in the leg, almost dying by the bullet hitting the main artery in his thigh, he still wants to get back to work as soon as possible.

I admire him.

The smell of tobacco and smoky air hits me when I get home and I go straight to the kitchen, making his favorite lasagna for dinner. Dad is in the recliner, and I help him to his feet when it's time to eat.

He doesn't complain once, but the pout is still there.

"Thank you, Isabella," he tells me, while I clear the dishes. "It means a lot to me that you came here."

He says this every day. For two weeks now, it's been the same thing. I do chores around the house, and every time I'm done, he thanks me for coming here and looking after him. But I know there's more to his words, because he's not only saying "thank you," but "I'm sorry," as well.

We used to be a happy family, just me, my mom, and my dad, living in sunny Florida. My mom with her business and Dad as a cop. They balanced each other out with my mother's passion for flowers and my father's professionalism about his police job. And then, he got on offer: Police chief for a department in Forks, Washington; better salary, better hours, less risk. He wanted us to move, but my mother didn't. The fight escaladed into accusations and arguments about equality, how my mother felt surpassed in their relationship because, apparently, what she did for a living didn't matter.

So my dad moved, they filed for divorce, and I stayed with mom.

I haven't really spent time with my dad for a year now, but though the circumstances could have been different, I'm glad I can live with him again.

**I\/I**

School continues to be the same.

Uniforms.

Wannabes.

Someones.

Noones.

And Jasper.

I don't sit with Jessica anymore, though she quickly disregarded me on my third day after realizing I wasn't about the gossip and the jocks, that I was simply a noone not looking for climbing on the social ladder.

I don't bother to go to lunch, choosing to brown bag it and sit in my father's Chevy with the windows rolled down. On the days it rains, I just leave a crack open so that fresh air will come in, but mostly, I just sit back and turn up the radio.

It's my third week in Forks, a Friday, and I'm enjoying a tuna sandwich and the soft tunes of droplets against the hood of the car.

_Tap, __tap_.

I turn my head, my breath hitches, and my body stiffens.

It's him.

It's Jasper.

For a minute, I just sit there and gape at him, tendrils on the tips of his dark locks, a shade of stubble on his strong jaw, three freckles across the bridge of his nose. And his eyes. Fuck. His eyes. They're like sapphires penetrating my soul, seeing everything, knowing everything. They're sad, and yet, experienced, soft, and loving.

I can get lost in those pools of blue.

"Are you just gonna let me stand out here and drown, darling?"

His voice is muffled by the window, but I can still hear the huskiness about it, low and rough.

I jump a little and lean over to the passenger seat and open the door. He's already there and climbs in.

The seat gets wet, but I don't care. His dark slacks issued by the school cling to his legs, and his shirt is see through, and yes, I'm right; he _is _toned. He has strong arms, a ripped abdomen, and broad shoulders.

He's hot.

And yet, untouchable.

He smiles. "Hi."

"Uhm… hi," I stutter back, getting lost in the dimple on his right cheek. I can't suppress the blush that creeps up my cheeks when he continues to look at me wordlessly.

"Why are you blushing, darling?"

Husky, low, rough.

I'm in love with a fucking voice.

"Uhm... no reason?"

I blush even harder, and he chuckles, the smile deepens and the dimple more prominent. I have an urge to lick it.

"Well darling, I guess I just have to find out on my own. But say, why do you stay out here? Why not go inside to Jessica and her…friends… I'm sure they miss you," he says with a frown.

I huff, crossing my arms over my chest.

I really don't like Jessica. Even hearing her name makes me want to gag.

"Well for your information, I have no desire to have lunch with _Jessica _and her band of wannabe idiots." I spit her name out like it's the spawn of Satan, and he looks surprised, then smiles again.

"Well, I guess you won't mind me joining you for lunch then, darling?"

**I\/I**

I've been here a month now, and in that time, I've only made one friend. But frankly, it's all I need.

Jasper is funny and sweet, and to this day, I haven't seen any of the mad and moody demeanors Jessica had told me about. Actually, except for that day when he asked me why I didn't sit with Jessica anymore, I've never seen him do anything but smile.

We share two classes together, and how I didn't notice before I don't know, but Jasper tells me he always sits in the back and keeps to himself. It makes sense, but I still beat myself up about it.

Charlie is getting better, too, and always comes home from physical therapy with a smile. But mostly, I just think it's because of his therapist Sue. She's a sweet woman, but it doesn't seem all that right to me; for him to get over my mother. Their love was supposed to last forever.

When I tell Jasper about it, he frowns.

"When we're kids, we always think that our parents are a constant, that they will be there forever. An unbreakable force. I know you're sad your parents aren't together anymore, but truth is fifty percent of all marriages end in divorce, because frankly, when the concept of 'til death do us part' was created, the expected age of death was thirty. I know it sounds stupid and that since they love each other it should be enough, but sometimes, it just isn't. Love isn't always enough" he says somberly.

He slouches a little back into the seat.

I have an uncontrollable urge to hug him.

In fact, I do.

It's a shock to the both of us when I move to half straddle his legs and sneak my arms around his neck, pulling him in for a tight hug. I know it's completely inappropriate the way I practically push his head into my chest and rake my hands through his hair, but I just can't stop it.

I hate to see him sad.

"Tell me about it?" I ask with a soft voice, masking my prying ways.

He sighs and pushes me back a little, but places his hands on my hips, keeping me on his lap.

"You're lucky, you know. Your parents might have divorced, but at least you have the knowledge that they both love you and will be there for you always. _They_ might not have each other, but you have both."

He looks out the window.

"My dad, he… well, let's say he wasn't the best type of guy. Hell, he wasn't even a good father _or_ husband. He was a screw-up, got my mom knocked up right out of high school and didn't even graduate with any good grades. He could never hold a job, and over the years, he hit the bottle. I could have handled the drinking, what I couldn't handle was his behavior when he was drunk.

"One time," he says, and pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, "he got mad, took his cigarette…" He takes my hands in his. It feels rough and scratchy, but I like it. Because it's Jasper. He moves our joined hands to his underarm, gracing over small, white circular scars. "…and stumped it on my arm."

I choke back a sob, because I can't stand to think he's been hurt in any way.

"Another time, he threw one of the bottles just inches from where my mom was standing. Made me pick up the shards of glass." He holds up his hands, palm my direction, and my gaze transfixes on his fingertips. "And now I have these."

I lean in and take his hand in mine, and then I pout my lips, look into his eyes, and kiss each one. My eyes never leave his, and I can see the emotions dancing in his sapphire eyes, almost glinting. His eyes are moist, and before I know it, a tear slips through and rolls down his cheek. I do the same that I did with his scarred fingers; I lean in and kiss it away.

My breath hitches, his the same. I look up into his eyes, then drop to his lips, pouty and pink and thin. My tongue slips out before I know it and drags across my bottom lip.

He growls.

Actually _growls. _

His hold on my hips tightens, and then…

Explosion.

Exquisite.

Euphoria.

He crashes against me in a raw feral need, our lips molding together like this is what we're meant to do. We're in sync.

His tongue darts out, asking for permission to enter, and I grant him willingly.

Soft and sweet. The taste of him is unbelievable.

"Jasper," I moan his name, and he grinds into me so hard I whimper.

My skirt is fanning over my thighs, and my panties are soaked against his slacks. He's bulging. He's big. I can feel it against my waiting core.

But we're at school.

In my father's truck.

During _lunch. _

Though I wish more than anything for us to continue, the bell rings to remind us of reality.

I rest my forehead against his, my eyes closed as his breath fawns over my face.

"Bella," he breathes and I feel alive.

**I\/I**

I'm in my first period, a week since our first kiss, and like a broken record, my mind goes back to that day in my daydreams. Very, very, _very_ happy daydreams.

"Earth to Bella... helloooo."

Jessica 'Wannabe' Stanley.

She's even more obnoxious than when I first met her, spewing off rude comments all over the place about me, how I look plain and ugly, how I'm a noone and will never be anything but.

"I'm talking to you freak," she spits, and I finally turn my head to look at her, sending my most annoyed look in her direction.

She doesn't take the hint.

"What?" I snap, and she grins widely. I don't like this.

"So, I heard from Sarah the other day that you eat in your truck. With the loser."

Yeah, I really don't like this.

"And like, it doesn't really surprise me," she continues. "Apparently, he's slept with _a lot _of girls, like when he came back all hot and stuff. He's just using you."

Though I know I shouldn't listen to her, I do.

"Just like he used Mary, Lisa, and Stephanie…" she trails off with a list of names, each one like a punch to my chest.

Is it true?

It's possible.

I try to block her out, but her words are etched into my brain.

He just uses girls.

He's a bad person.

After all, isn't there always truth in rumors?

I avoid him for days; I eat in the cafeteria alone

instead of my father's car.

When he tries to talk to me in the parking lot, I slam the door shut and drive home as fast as possible. I wrap myself up into taking care of my dad, joining him for physical therapy and watch as he interacts with Sue.

He smiles.

My heart breaks at the remembrance of Jasper's words.

"They_ might not have each other, but you have both."_

He's right.

And he's not bad.

He is never mad or moody. He opens the door for me, he peppers me with sweet kisses when I'm sad, he whispers loving words when he holds me.

How could I have let Jessica's words affect me like this?

The next day, I go out for lunch. It's raining heavily and I look like a drowned rat when I get to the car.

Jasper is there, sitting on the ground with his head resting on his knees. His body is shaking.

"I'm sorry," I say, and his head jerks up. His eyes are puffy, a little red. He's been crying.

"Just, please, get in the car." I beckon him and take his hand. He's heavy, but I help him to his feet. But he doesn't go for the door handle. Instead, he pulls me into a tight hug and buries his head in my neck.

"Don't leave me like that again. I can't take being away from you."

"Me, either," I tell him, raking my hands through his hair, and I look into his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I was just confused and influenced, well, stupid really. I'm just… I just don't get why you would want to be with me. It doesn't make sense. You're supposed to be this bad guy everyone hates, mad all the time and not give a damn about anyone. But, you're not. Your smile is the sun and your eyes are the ocean. You're beautiful."

He smiles widely.

"You sound like my mom," he confesses, and snake his arms around to my lower back. "But it sounds so much better coming from you".

"Mm mhmm," I hum, and crash my lips against his. We melt together in perfect harmony, standing in the rain and making out. He tastes so sweet, and I moan against him. His hands move lower and cup my ass, hiking me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. He backs us up against my father's car and our tongues clash together.

Euphoria.

"I'm sorry," I mumble and trace my lips along the stubble on his jaw, tracing wet kisses to his ear and blowing lightly. "I'll never leave you again." I kiss down his throat.

He groans loudly, and I'm ecstatic that I can make him sound like that. His grip on my ass tightens and he pushes me more into the truck, grinding his bulging crotch against me. I gasp.

"Fuck, Jasper, more," I beg, because I can't stop. He feels so good.

"Do you really want me to make love to you against your dad's truck in the middle of the school parking lot for the world to see?" He grins and break our contact, panting heavily as he lets me down to my feet, and takes my hand.

"I guess not." I blush and grin sheepishly up at him.

"Another time, darling. But now, I think America's History is waiting for us."

**I\/I**

I pick up the picture frame and smile at the little blond boy grinning up at me. Even when he was five he had those cute dimples and sapphire eyes shining brightly. The next picture is much the same, only he is standing next to a tall man with the same blond hair and blue eyes.

"That's his father, Aaron."

I turn around quickly. Mrs. Whitlock – or Charlotte, as she insists – is standing right behind me with a sad expression on her face. She takes the frame from my hand and puts it back on the mantle, shaking her head lightly and gesturing towards the row of pictures.

They are much the same, young Jasper with his father and sometimes with his mother. A big blonde happy family.

"He was so happy then. When he was just a child," she says, and looks at me. "Did he tell you about his daddy?"

"He only told me how he got the scars."

"Ah."

Neither speaks for a moment. We just stand there and look at the past life of Jasper, happy and carefree, unjudged. Just a little boy.

"I met his father in high school," Charlotte says silently, because Jasper is in the kitchen making dinner, and I have a feeling this isn't something she wants him to know she's telling me. "And he was the most handsome man I've ever met. But, he wasn't the most easygoing guy, with a drunken single father and a hard upbringing. I guess that was what drove him to the bottle. You see, after we got married, and I had Jasper, Aaron's father got arrested for armed robbery trying to get his hand on some alcohol, and Aaron didn't take it very well, insisting that he shouldn't have been incarcerated in the first place. He started drinking heavily after a few years and became…possessive. I could hardly leave the house to shop for groceries and Jasper wasn't allowed to go past our backyard. It was…well, it was emotional abuse at best. But I was too in love with him to see it.

"So, I homeschooled Jasper myself because I couldn't have my boy illiterate, and we went on with life like it was normal. Though, I was too blind to see what my husband was turning into, I think Jasper always knew something was wrong. As he grew older, he started to stand up against his father, but even though Aaron was drunk, he was still bigger and stronger. I know it was wrong of me, to turn a blind eye to it, but it was a reality I didn't want to face.

"Somehow, I convinced Aaron to let Jasper start high school, and my baby boy was so happy, to be able to go outside, to have friends. But, he didn't know anyone there and he had a hard time trusting anyone…and I didn't know what to do. I was trapped in a marriage with a man I didn't recognize, but held on to the memories of the one I used to love. I should have left the first time Aaron hit me, while Jasper was out, but I was so afraid he'd find us and hurt Jasper…"

Charlotte, with her tall height and fierce posture, who looks like she can take on the world, has demolished to a small woman with a shaky voice. She's lost in her memories, and I in her tale, so neither of us hears when Jasper walks in.

"Mom?" We jump in surprise and turn to see him standing in the doorway, a grim expression on his face and splatters from the soup on his shirt. A potholder covering his left hand. "What's going on?"

"Oh nothing, dear." Charlotte tries to sound calm and collected, but a slight stutter at the end exposes her. "I'm just telling Bella here about the pictures."

He tenses up, his face turns hard and his eyes cold. He stares…at me.

We eat the soup he's made in an awkward silence; no one looks at anything but the air and their spoons. I hate the tension, so thick you can cut it with a knife, but I have a feeling I'll know, soon enough.

We go to his room after Charlotte announces she's going out to meet with some friends, saying she'll be home later. "It was nice meeting you, Bella," she says, and pulls me in for a hug, whispering in my ear, "Be careful with him, he's not dealing with it in the best way."

Her cryptic message rings in my ears when we sit down on his bed. We make out, his hand under my shirt and mine in his hair, but my heart isn't truly in it. Yet, my body still responds, moaning and arching up as his fingers massage my breasts.

My leg wraps around his waist, giving him more access to grind against me, and he trails wet kisses down my throat, past my collarbones, and his nose skims the neckline of my shirt. His right hand leaves the skin under my shirt, but trails lower down on my hip, my waist, and to the hemline of my skirt. And then his hand is on my upper thigh.

"Jasper…you have to stop." A small part of me yells at myself for stopping this, a building sensation in my lower stomach, but I know I can't let it go any further.

"I'm sorry, darling," he drawls breathlessly. "I won't do anything you're not ready for. It's okay."

"What? No, it's not that. I want it, damn how I want it with you. I'm not a… you know. But it's not that…" I trail off nervously, and sit up away from him. I instantly miss the contact.

"You're not a virgin?" he asks, dumbfounded, and scoots back so his back rests against the wall.

"No. I had a boyfriend back in Florida that I... Though, it doesn't look like you're so pure, either… but that's not the point. We need to talk. You know we do."

"Mom told you about my dad, didn't she?" he asks, and looks down at his folded hands. "Did she tell you everything? About how he died?"

I shake my head no, but scoot closer to him because I can see how he's struggling to hold back the tears. "It's okay, tell me or don't tell me. I won't leave you." He takes a deep breath and squeezes my hand.

"So, I take it she told you about how she was when I was little? Okay, well, whenever I could I tried to rile him up, make him hit me so she'd see how he really was and leave. But, she didn't. Then things just got worse once I started school. He'd go heavier on the bottle, giving me the scars… But, I thought I was getting the worst of it…"

Tears are flowing in a steady stream down his face, and his nose scrunches up in a frowning way, but he doesn't stop speaking. He lays down in my lap with his face facing out, and I stroke his hair, letting him get it all out. I don't think he told this to anyone else.

"But I wasn't. Mom was… hiding it from me, telling me everything was fine. Then, one day, I got home and Mom was lying in a pool of her own blood. I freaked out and carried her to the hospital… I stayed with her for a week, sleeping in a chair. I was so scared that he'd come back and... kill her or something.

"Then, she was released from the hospital, and when we got home, he wasn't there. I stayed home with her, worried he'd come back when I wasn't there. But he didn't come back. We got a call that he was dead the day after we got home; he'd driven right into a light-post with more alcohol than blood in his veins. We got him cremated and threw his ashes in a dump.

"You can say I went through a phase or something after that. I knew I looked just like him, so I…dyed my hair dark. But then I just flipped out, ya know? Whenever someone made a comment about my mom or dad or my life in general, I just flipped out. Pent up aggravation and all that."

"But why are you different with me?" I ask, and he looks up at me with smiling sapphire eyes.

"Because I have no reason to flip out on you. You're beautiful, and I'm not just talking about how great your ass looks in that skirt when you bend over to pick something up or how the rain makes your shirt see through, but how you are inside. You came here to take care of your father, moving over three thousand miles in a selfless act. You talk about your mom like she's the sun, you talk compassionately about issues going on all over the world…and you haven't looked at me with disgust once since you got here.

"I saw you that first day, sitting with Jessica while she was looking at me like everyone does, like I'm a complete loser. And then there was you. You're the prettiest girl I've ever seen, darling, and you sat there and listened to her but never stopped smiling. You were just perfect. I listened to you in class, your strong opinions and correct answers, never wavering.

"I guess you make me a better person, because I've..softened…lately. I haven't gotten in a single fight since you moved here, and that's because the thought of you makes me smile. And you are all I ever think of anymore."

He pauses, looking nervously up at me. He sits back up and kisses me. "I love you."

I'm frozen.

"What?"

"I said, I love you, darling."

"I love you, too." I sigh.

And I mean it. With all of my heart.

We sink together again in harmony, his lips on mine and his hand on my thigh. But this time, I don't stop it. I let his hands wander as mine do the same, unbuttoning his shirt and feeling his hard chest under my soft hands. His hands go higher until they're massaging my cheeks, and I arch my body against his.

Then it comes.

Euphoria.

Our clothes are strewn all over Jasper's bedroom floor, moans and grunts are the only sounds to be heard, arousal thick in the air.

With his hands and mouth, he plays me like a fiddle, making me cry out only the sounds _he _allows: moans and his name. No "God," because not even he can be this good, only the feel of Jasper's tongue on my heated core and his fingers pumping me can make me scream like I am.

"Jasper!" I call out when he stops. I want to be furious with him for stopping, but I'm too worked up to be anything but crazed. "Why did you stop?" I whine and grasp his member; large in both length and girth. He groans as I slide my hand from the base to the tip, spreading the precum oozing there.

"Because, darling," he smirks and pushes me back on the bed, lying between my legs and burying his head in my neck, biting and licking, "I want to be inside you when you come."

It's been a while since the last time I've had sex, eight months since me and my last boyfriend ended. So, I wince when he first pushes into me, clawing at his back. He growls out loud muttering, "so tight" and bites down on my neck, surely leaving a mark, but I _want _to be marked by him.

He goes slowly at first, easing me into it, but the pace is torturous and I beg him for more. After that, his thrust become frantic, hard and deep, and our grunts and moans loud and hot.

I cry out his name when I come, and my name rolls easily off his lips with hard breaths as he empties himself inside me. "_Bella._"

Euphoria.

Orgasmic.

Jasper.

**I\/I**

_"__Personal affection is a luxury you can have only after_ _all your enemies are eliminated. Until then, everyone_ _you love is a hostage, sapping your courage_ _and corrupting your judgment."_

I think about Jasper. About the future. And Orson Scott Card. His words are echoes in my head as I walk down the school halls, driving my father, making out with Jasper, doing other things with Jasper, more or less in my every waking hour.

Happiness can't last forever.

Summer is closing in on us, and I'm a nervous wreck, waiting for my final letter.

Washington; accepted.

Columbia; rejected.

I've gotten many letters back, because I've applied to almost every college there is, but there's one left that I crave the most. Longhorns. Texas. Austin. Ever since I was little and we visited Grandma Jane every summer, I've been in love with it. Going to college there is my dream.

But I fret.

Jasper doesn't talk about college or the future, opting to distract me with love and lust, playful teasing and lame jokes. And I let him because I love him. But there are only a few weeks left, and I can't avoid it anymore. I try to bring it up, but he looks lost and hurt, and I stop. I try again. Same reaction. But then, with two weeks left of school, I'm in his house watching him make dinner, smiling like a fool. He turns. I stop smiling. He tells me he's not going to college, I tell him we'll work it out, I'll go to Washington and be near him. But he looks so lost and worried. I don't understand.

"You can't go to Washington, darling. Your heart is in the warm south, not the drizzling North. You know that. If I made you stay, you'd end up resenting me."

He's wrong.

"You're wrong," I tell him. "I wouldn't. I'd do anything to be with you. If you want to work instead of going to school, then I'll be here and support you…"

He cuts me off.

"I don't want to work. Bella. Jesus. I mean… I'm not staying in Forks, or Seattle, or whatever. I…fuck this is so hard. Bella, I'm…I enlisted in the army."

I can't respond. I'm speechless.

"It's all I've ever wanted, you have to understand. It's my dream to do something good and help people. I can't stay here and be Jasper Aaron Whitlock, ending up as a drunk as my father. I'd rather do something useful before I die. If I stay here, then I won't be anything but a loser. In their eyes, I can never be anything else. I just want to get out of here, escape, start over, and just be like everyone else." He cups my face, his thumb wiping away tears I haven't realized have been shed. "You have to understand."

"When?" I ask, finally finding my voice.

"When what, darling?"

"When are you leaving?"

He sighs. "A week."

"You're not even gonna finish school?" I ask, bewildered. Surely his mother won't allow this. But then again, I've known Charlotte for a few months now, and she supports Jasper in everything he does.

"We ship off to the training camp next week, but truthfully, I never had the greatest grades. I'm not valedictorian or the teacher's pet. I'm the back of the room and spacing out. They don't get me, they never have and they never will. This is what I want. You have to understand."

"But I love you, can't you stay…for me? You're going to get yourself killed."

He sighs, and quotes himself, "Love isn't always enough."

"I'm not enough," I say in merely a whisper. He could just as well have stabbed me in the heart, because that is what his words feel like.

"No, Bella that's not what I…" He tries to say something, but I block out his voice and mumble something about picking up my dad, saying I'll call him, and then I rush out with my lies thick in the air.

When I get home, I cry and wallow in self-pity. My love for him isn't enough. Not for him. Yet, I'd go to the end of the earth and back just to see him smile. I don't understand how he can do this to himself.

I research the military.

Four out of every twenty soldier drops out before the so-called hell week. Two thirds of all the soldiers shipped overseas in battle either return with psychological problems or some sort of injuries. Many don't return at all and the small part that stays sane…well, they return with bad memories and a country that won't support them in finding jobs.

When I see Jasper the next day, my heart dies a little.

So, I ignore him.

I don't answer his calls or return his messages.

I can't look at him anymore. My heart splits up into pieces every time I do. Because I know that since I'm not enough, I can't keep him alive.

**I\/I**

It's the week before school ends, the day before Jasper leaves, and my heart is bleeding. I miss him so much; his words, his kisses, his touch, his smell.

I miss Jasper. I miss _my _Jasper. The one that holds me after we've made love, spooning me for hours with sweet whispered words, making me laugh with cute anecdotes about the life in Forks before me, the one who bares his soul to me.

The one I love.

I don't understand this side of him, the side that is dead set on killing himself. No pun intended, of course.

My dad has invited Sue for dinner, a surprise for me, but I try to repress the hurt pressing down on my chest. "I'm going to the store, Dad."

"Yeah, what for?" he asks from the couch where he's sitting all cuddled up to Sue, his arm over her shoulder with her leaning comfortably into his side. I want to cry.

"Ice cream," I mutter loudly enough for him to hear, and run out as fast as I can. It's not raining, for once, so I decide to walk to the grocery store.

My mind is all over the place, tears close to spilling as I enter the store and make a beeline towards the frozen section. Ben and Jerry's are my best friends, chocolate my confidant, and a bottle of chocolate syrup is bound to be my only lover for the night. But, I'm missing something.

With my hands full of binging self-comfort food – because I have not bothered to take a basket to place it all in – I stroll over to collect whipped cream in a can. Balancing all the items carefully, I make my way to the cashier and practically throw it all on the band because it's almost slipping out of my arms.

I'm about to bring out my wallet, when a familiar yet frightening voice startles me. "Bella?" I turn around fast, seeing Jasper coming up to the register with a basket full of the same items as me. Though he has caramel flavored ice cream with brownie bits.

I throw the money in the cashier's face, grab my items, and rush out as fast as I can. But with the lack of luck I seem to possess, I trip over the curb and fall straight on my ass. Total embarrassment. The tears spill.

"Damn, darling, are you okay?" Jasper's voice is so close, comforting, and yet, unnerving at the same time. "Let me help you up, okay?"

I don't answer, but let him drag me to my feet by my elbows, and I stumble into his chest. His arms are around me. He doesn't let go. I'm flush against him. I don't let go.

After several moments of silence, we break apart and pick up the ice cream that's melting on the ground. "Are you okay, darling?" he asks again, using his favorite name of endearment for me. I tell him the truth, how watching my father be so happy without my mother is breaking my spirit. My belief in love.

He whispers soothingly in my ear, easing me down from my small breakdown as he walks me to his house, because it's closer and his mother is apparently gone for the evening. Though I shouldn't rejoice in that, I do. I'm going to be alone with Jasper.

We sit on his couch in silence and binge on the ice cream, but it's a comfortable silence I can deal with. I'm actually dreading the words I know are coming. It's bound to happen. Destruction. Because I can't understand his need to be a soldier and he is dead set on fighting in a war we have nothing to do with.

Anticipating his move, I move closer as he opens his mouth. "Darling, I…" is all he manages to utter before I capture his lips with mine. His taste is so sweet. It's only been a week, and yet it has seemed like an eternity since I've tasted his lips. He seems to think the same as he pushes me down to my back, lying on top of me and ravaging my mouth.

Though my plan was solely to stop him from saying the words I fear, everything is forgotten when we move together.

This is the last time, I know it, but I don't stop it. Neither does he.

We manage to move to his bedroom and a more comfortable sitting. Love making has never been this bittersweet. It's softer than the other times, laced with so many more emotions. Both of us hold on to the other as our hips move in slow thrusts, me clawing a hold on his back and his fingers digging into my hips.

It's not loud or boisterous, only soft moans and the sound of our skin slapping against each other is to be heard. The ending comes as we do, but neither of us move. He remains inside of me, breathing labored into my neck, and I feel wetness trickling down between my breasts.

He's crying.

We disconnect, but remain touching as long as we can. Neither wants us to end, but both know it's bound to happen.

"I wish you could understand," he whispers against me as we lay still together.

"I do, too" I reply, kissing his forehead, my lips lingering for an eternity. I'm leaving.

"I'm sorry," I say for the last time, my last words to him, but though I get dressed again, I wait by the door. He scrambles together his boxers, his head hung down with his dark locks covering his eyes. I lift my hand and push them away. I need to see his beautiful blue eyes one last time.

"I love you," he whispers, and presses his lips to mine, just a soft peck and then I'm gone.

I decide this is the last time he sees me, but not the last time I see him.

The day after, I get a call from Charlotte telling me when his bus is scheduled to leave. I think she knows. Everything.

The sky is gray and threatening to break loose with thunder and hail, but a bluebird in a tree tells me it's safe to go outside.

The bus stop is packed, boys on the brink of manhood lined up to step onto the grey bus, a uniformed man with a list standing outside the entrance stopping each one and then crossing out their names.

Jasper is standing with his mother a small distance from the others, talking silently together with teary eyes and hushed voices. He gives her a tight hug and she kiss his cheek, tears spilling over and wiping them away with a small hanky.

They part.

She stands alone as the mother she is, sending off her son to war with tears streaming, but a faint smile on her lips. Jasper walks with a straight back and strong strides, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder and clothes ironed and neat as he talks to the man by the bus.

With Jasper's words, which I cannot hear, the man actually cracks a smile, though to the others, he's been nothing but grim. I can't help that the corners of my mouth lift knowing that Jasper is showing his true self to people.

Not the outcast, but the person.

The bus doors slide shut just as the sky thickens with dark clouds, the thunder hurls, and a white light shines in the distance. The bus roars to life with dark smoke oozing out of the exhaust pipe.

Jasper is sitting in a window seat, and just as the bus starts to move, he turns his head, his eyes landing on me as I stand in the outskirts.

I mouth "I love you" and he does the same.

The bus turns on a corner, and he's gone.

* * *

**Present day****.**

Charlie comes with me, but I insist on driving us both. I don't like it when he uses his leg too much. He doesn't say anything, but I'm thankful that he decided to join me. He's even in his finest suit, a decade old and a little too short at his sleeves, a plain black tie and his black formal shoes.

He's dressed plain, nothing fancy, but that's not the point of this visit.

Where his clothes are outdated, though, I am wearing a dress never before used. It goes to my knees, a subtle low v-neck and a two inch belt below my bust. I wear one-inch heels and my hair is up in an ordainment on the back of my head. I don't try to look more than I am, but my stone hard expression doesn't portray a grieving woman.

The sky is dark and gray, a typical Forks day. No light. No hope. Only darkness. You can sense just a hint of moisture falling down on you, but it's not complete droplets of rain. Just…humid.

I park at the end of the parking lot. The entire lot is full. A surprise at first, but then I realize most of them aren't there to mourn over the boy, but the hero. They are here to pay their respects to someone they have just heard of, tales and stories from a foreign land and bravery unknown to them. They don't know the same person I am here to see one last time. Only one other person I know of is.

His mother stands in the front when I finally gather the courage to get out of my car. Next to her is a man I don't know. And yet he looks familiar. Tall and lean, surely with the subtle muscles that _he _had. But when I get closer, he isn't alike at all. He has light hair, but looks like a type of red all the same, a strong jaw but it's wider, a nose clumpier than his was. He's dressed in a formal uniform, dark blue colors and brass buttons, a row of medals on his left chest. In his white gloved hands he holds a triangle of fabric in reds, blues, and whites. Stars and stripes.

I stand next to Charlotte, who is crooning her back with grief, wearing a veil to cover her face from the crowd. But I know her eyes are puffy and red. She smiles when she sees me and leans in to hug me. She looks so small and broken, and yet I stand tall and straight, not yet affected by tears.

"I'm glad you could come, Bella," she whispers, and lets go, turning back to the dark mahogany coffin adorned with flowers and ribbons. The unknown man stands on her other side, and together we flank her from the others who stands behind us dressed in black and stained with tears.

Once the minister starts, the man clicks his heels together and stands in salute for half an hour until the service is over. He's saluting his death, his life, his memory. I wonder who he is, blocking out the words that are spoken when the coffin is lowered into the ground.

Three shots.

The smell of gunpowder fills the air and smoke dances with the wind as three uniformed men fire their guns into the sky like fireworks.

First shot.

I clench my eyes together and grasp Charlotte's hand in mine.

Second shot.

I zero in on the flowers and ribbons, thank you's and words of love written upon them.

Third shot.

I block everything out.

It could have been days, hours, minutes, or maybe it was just seconds, but as Charlotte takes those few steps and takes a handful of dirt in her hands, time ceases to exist. Her words rip my heart open, and as she tosses the dirt into the hole in the ground, my first tear slips through.

"Goodbye, my son," she says into the wind and steps back, letting the uniformed man at her side step forward and do the same. I can't hear what he says to him, but I'm sure it's something meaningful and beautiful like most people say at funerals.

Then Charlotte looks to me, indicating it's my turn, and I stumble my way forward, my heels sinking down in the wet ground, and I stand for a second, completely still, taking a hand of dirt, and tossing it in.

"_I'm sorry_."

There's nothing more I can say, no words that will suffice for what I feel inside my black heart.

I'll miss you…oh, I'll do so much more than that.

Goodbye…we never had a goodbye, we had an end and suffering.

Sorry seems to be the only word appropriate for this occasion.

Because I am sorry. Sorry for hurting him, for giving up, leaving him, letting him go.

And so, I step back, and the ceremony continues. The uniformed man takes two steps forward, turns, takes two steps, and turns again, so he's facing Charlotte. He presents her the flag, three medals lying on top of it.

"To you, Mrs. Whitlock, the mother of Sergeant Mayor; Jasper Aaron Whitlock, the American Army is proud to present to you the Silver star for a valor in the face of the enemy; the Bronze star for acts of bravery in the face of war. And the Purple Heart for a soldier lost in combat."

His voice is smooth like velvet, but laced with sadness and grief as he hands over the flag and the three medals. It's too much to take for either of us, but as Charlotte breaks down in the man's arms and weeps, I turn on my heel and run away as fast as I can.

I'm a coward, I know, but it's too much for me handle in public.

I run to my car, shutting myself inside, and rest my head on the steering wheel, blocking everything out.

**I\/I**

The reception is held at his house… No, his mother's house. He doesn't live there anymore. He won't come back.

I don't go inside, but stay on the porch swing while everyone shelters from the rain pouring down outside with me. I hear a lot of muffled talking, but instead of going inside and participating in the memorabilia, I stay on the swing and light a cigarette.

The floor creeks.

The swing shifts.

The uniformed man sits down next to me.

"Hi, I'm Edward," he says, and shakes my hand.

"Bella."

His eyes light sorrow and recognition, but I'm not quite sure why.

"What?" I ask when he doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he replies with sad green eyes.

Green. Not blue, not sapphire. Though he seems so familiar, he's not Jasper. Jasper won't come back.

"My loss? Why do you presume I knew him more than anyone else inside this house pretending to care about a boy they all used to bully? Why should my loss me any bigger than Jessica Stanley's? Why?"

He looks unsure of how to respond to my outburst, but after opening and closing his mouth a few times he just leans back and brings out a pack of Lucky Strike.

"You knew him?" I ask after a moment, and I hear him exhale hard.

"Yeah. We were... army buddies. I was there when… you know."

I do know. Well, some of it. When Charlotte first called me and told me about Jasper, she told me how he sacrificed himself for his platoon, that he was a decorated soldier.

"_Hello?"_

"_Bella?" an unsure voice says back to me. _

"_Yes, who is this?"_

"_Bella, it's Charlotte Whitlock. I... it's Jasper."_

You'd think I'd be happy for hearing the voice of someone I haven't spoken to in four years, but as the words slipped out of her mouth, I wished she'd never called.

"Oh," I reply. "Lighter?" I hand him my lighter. He doesn't have one himself.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

We're silent for a few minutes, listening to the muffled voices inside, speaking of grief and death. I can't stand it, so I stand up and look down on Edward.

"Wanna get outta here?"

"Your place or mine?" he replies without even blinking.

I take his hand, and together we walk the short quarter mile to his hotel.

**I\/I**

Edward tilts his head back, taking a long swig of his beer and collapses back on the bed. I stay up, the sheets covering my naked front and take long drags of my cigarette, blowing out the smoke in rings. I'm good at that.

"Are you going to tell me already?" I ask him, and lean back, stomping the cig in the ashtray.

He gulps audibly, sniffles just one time, and then begins his story.

"I met Jasper on our first day of drafting. He stood next to me when our instructor came up to me and started yelling at me because of my hair. It used to be this long mop, you know, all crazy looking. I tell you, I was so scared I almost pissed my pants. I broke down when we got to the barracks, saying I wanted to go home. But Jasper, he talked me out of it, telling me I had to be strong if I ever wanted to be a soldier. And that was my dream, to be a US soldier and serve my country.

"We just clicked, just like that, and we were friends ever since. He stood by me through thick and thin, bar fights and training. He even taught me how to climb the wall using my upper arms to pull my weight. Without him, I would have been sent home after just the first week. He was like a rock, unmovable."

_Untouchable._

"And then, we got sent overseas to Iraq. Our first mission, and we got it together, in the same platoon. We were assigned to take out these occupants in a small village. They were using up all the water, the townspeople starving and thirsting and getting killed every day. Jasper saved my ass more times than I can count on both hands.

"We climbed in the ranks, but Jasper had this charisma about him that just made everything easier for him. Like, when the troops got excited or nervous, all it took were a few chose words and they'd calm down."

He smiles widely at the memory of the man we both loved more than anything, and I share that smile, envisioning my Jasper standing tall and giving out orders. He was always leader, even when there was no one to follow him.

"But then, we got sent back, this time to 'Ghani'"

"Ghani?" I ask, perplexed.

"Afghanistan." He rolls over to his side so he's looking straight at me, reaching out his hand so he can stroke my stomach lightly. His hands are rough, but not rough enough. There are no small scars on his fingertips for me to kiss, no small circular scars on his arms for me to caress. He's not Jasper.

"We were just driving back to home base, everyone was tired and not paying enough attention to the road. We got ambushed. Afghani patriots fighting for the freedom of their country. We fought some of them off, but they were too many. Jasper was dragging Suarez out of the range of fire when he looked up at me. Hamilton and Jones were down, three others hurt. And he rips off his tags and throws them to me."

He takes a deep breath, his entire body shaking and tears running down his cheeks. I do the same. But then he turns over and grabs his pants, digging into one of the pockets and rolls back over with his fist clenched around something.

"He told me, 'Give this to Bella and tell her I never stopped loving her,'" he chokes out, and squeezes his eyes shut, taking my hand and opening his palm against mine. It's cold and metal. A dirty chain and two tags attached to it. His name is engraved on both.

_Jasper A. Whitlock._

I sob, I cry, I weep, for the first time since I got that call from his mother, hearing her sob into the phone and telling me her son – the love of my life – was dead. Except for the memories, this is all I got left of him.

And so, I cry.

"Then – then," he stutters out. "He took a grenade, let go of Suarez, turned and started running towards them. I was screaming for him to stop, calling out his name, but he never halted. He screamed out like a damn barbarian and threw himself at them, blowing them all up. Even himself.

"He sacrificed himself for all of us. I…I...I'm sorry I couldn't save him, Bella. I loved him, God I loved him, but I couldn't save him. Once he gave me his tags, I knew he wouldn't go back. That he wouldn't come back. And now, he's dead. "

I can't stand to see him cry over Jasper, so I jump out of bed and grab my dress, slipping it on, and rush out before Edward can say a word.

I walk mindlessly through the town, darkness around me everywhere during the midnight hour. But this has been my life now for four years. Ever since I let him go, I have lived in a constant state of darkness. No love. No hope. Just lost.

It doesn't surprise me when I end up in the graveyard, gravitating to him even in death.

A cross has been set up. White, his name, his birthday, and the date of his death are written on it. I'm sure when the stone is set up, Charlotte will write something beautiful about him.

Beloved son.

Loyal friend.

Great leader.

Patriot.

But nothing can ever suffice. No words are great enough to summarize this person to one measly stone. Books can be filled with the description of how great he was, how complex, how astonishingly fantastic.

Dirt bulges out from the earth where he is buried, flowers covering every patch of it. Colorful.

"Hello, Jasper."

I look like a crazy person, but then again, I was never really sane when I was around him. Our first kiss, our first time, letting him go. I never did what I was supposed to do.

He doesn't answer, but it's almost like I expect him to jump out and call me darling again.

"You look good," I try to joke, but of course, no one is around to laugh.

So I break down, crying and crying at the end of his grave. My heart rips into pieces. You can count the number of petals on his grave, and that is how many pieces my heart is in. Shattered. Over and over. Because I failed him.

"I'm sorry," I choke out and tumble to my knees into the wet sinking ground.

"I'm so sorry. If I knew, if I knew I'd never see you again, goddamnit I would have chased down that bus and hauled you out. I wouldn't have yelled at you. I would have stayed. I'm sorry.

"I loved you. I still love you. And I'm sorry I wasn't enough."

I stay at his grave, on the wet muddy ground, apologizing about every single thing I did wrong by him. I tell him how I saw him, how beautiful he was inside-out, the smile that could light my day, how I loved the feel of his rough hands on my body.

But in the end, there is nothing left to say. No one to listen. He's not here, but he will be in my heart forever. My first and only love.

**I\/I**

_When people used to talk about Jasper, they called him a loser, an outcast with no future. But I knew the truth, that he was just misunderstood. But now no else will ever know. Because in their minds he's solely a hero of war, but I know in my heart that even when he threw himself into that war, he was still that lost little boy just looking for recognition. He wouldn't want to be seen as a hero. Just normal. That was all he ever wanted. And because of that, he didn't fit in. He was just misunderstood.

* * *

_

Written for the support of the Nashville flood victims.  
You're in our prayers.


End file.
